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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29474253">lure/longing</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sopronetotakefakes/pseuds/sopronetotakefakes'>sopronetotakefakes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>RWBY</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Period-Typical Racism</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 21:54:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,028</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29474253</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sopronetotakefakes/pseuds/sopronetotakefakes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Three girls on a mission to find the fourth.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Blake Belladonna/Yang Xiao Long</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Once upon a time, in a land where Grimm stalked the earth, there lived three girls.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The first was born in a cottage near the woods, with hair like the sun’s rays at noon. Her father was overjoyed at her arrival and thought his happiness complete, not noticing the shadows that crept over his wife’s face as they crept open-mouthed into her dreams. They named the child Yang, but no amount of sunshine could ease her mother’s foreboding. When the girl was old enough to toddle around the room, her mother turned into a raven and flew away.</em>
</p><p>
  <em> The second girl was born in a caravan on the move, her parents anxious to flee from the land of their birth. The long hand of prejudice reached far, barring the doors that should have open for a mother-to-be. Blake was born to the rhythms of the road, her second set of ears unfurling to her mother’s soft lullabies, even while her father struggled to lead the horses through hostility to find home. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>They swaddled the third girl in silk after her birth, presenting her to a father who told the maid to take it away even as the mother reached out a limp hand for her child. Weiss grew up surrounded by walls as white as her name, in rooms made sterile by elegance and the blank gaze of servants. Perhaps it should have mattered, for she took her first steps alone.</em>
</p><p>
  <em> In the usual telling, each would have their own story, their own beginning and end. But their paths crossed, you see, and all became hopelessly entangled. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The people in this world feared those that walked the woods, and their fear sealed them into themselves like so many living tombs. Perhaps they recognised the narrowness of their lives, grew frustrated with the heavy walls trapping them; paced back and forth and back and forth until a groove etched itself into the bare stone. Or perhaps the woods simply called, and they discovered what had lurked in their hearts all along, and it was the echoes that would call and rebound endlessly against the confines of their prisons. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>There’s no shortage of girls running off into the forest, straying off the beaten path, on the run or running into a predestined encounter, setting familar wheels into motion. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Stories as old as time have their own way of unwinding, each pattern unfolding as it may without respect for the sanctity of the page. That which ran parallel now ran into one another, overlapping over and over until the ink bled into something other. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Once upon a time, three girls met by a campfire.</em>
</p><p>***</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Blake</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Draw your curtains against the dark, warn your children to keep away from the windows once the lamps are lit. Fear is most pungent when the gears of the mind lose traction, spin fruitlessly down into a nice little rut, neatly trapped to draw those seeking such prey. To send a girl out alone into the dusk, give her bread and salt, some cheese, a little sugar packed inside a small pot, oilcloth wrapped flint and steel nestled safely inside. To reuse your lure, keep her alive. Note the blade on her back, infused chain wrapped around the dark tendrils spiralling labyrinthine up her arm. Another individual manifestation. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>You must inject the compounded formula with a large hollow tipped needle, hold her down while the malevolent slurry writhes its way into the bloodstream, shooting pain up nerves into sinew, digging glitter deep into marrow. The lure works on the intensity of the reaction, remains potent so long as the body lives to continue its struggle against the invader.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Should she make it past the third day, you may declare the implantation successful and send her staggering out on hollowed bones. They usually limp to a quiet spot to unwrap their limb, and it's tradition to allow them to do so. First glimpse. Their own personal manifestation of fear, their storage facility. Our lure. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It'll be stronger now, you must tell them, all the better to fight the Grimm with. Might even find that it might save your life one day, find yourself able to do something impossible. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>But only arm them on the way out, never before.</em>
</p><p>***</p><p>he room seemed empty, though the arrival of the replenishments would hardly detract from the general air of neglect and disappointment that hung heavy over the space. A few remnants of bunting still fluttered from where they clung to the wall; a slight breeze came through the cracks. Blake pressed her damp forehead against the glass of the corner window, forced fingers away from clammy palms. </p><p>The squad she’d been assigned to had been eighteen strong six months ago, able to field six patrol teams for the Grimm to swallow, and the Grimm had fed well. Blake had joined the last of the three teams to set out a season ago, but only four from those surviving twelve had made it to yesterday’s check-in. The three humans had banded together to form a new patrol team, and had headed out that morning, leaving Blake’s safety and survival in the hands of the promised replenishments. They wouldn’t be Faunus, that much was sure. Faunus conscription had been diverted to the mines for the last two seasons. That left criminals and volunteers. </p><p>She'd volunteered under her real name, only revealed her ears after processing. There was always a risk that some records custodian with an eye for detail would link her to her old mining records, but she’d wanted her remains returned to Faunus soil, the bereavement allowance paid out to her parents via the sympathetic shopkeeper listed as next-of-kin in the event of her death.</p><p>Twenty years ago, the villagers living along the road simply ignored the Faunus children tied to the saddle of the patrol horses. It was hard enough to feed your own, never mind the animal brats. They’d be fed and clothed by the mines, and that’s more than their shiftless parents could do. </p><p>Those children grew up breathing the Dust-filled air in the mines, and some fell in love, as young people are apt to do. The Dust-lit tunnels heard their whispered confessions, witnessed the fleeting moments snatched from work quotas and timesheets. Then the children were born, and the horrified whispers made their way through the towns and out into the villages. Travelling apprentices and journeymen deep into their cups spoke of Faunus children born with horns fused into the bones of their arms, of winged babies born gasping for breath, gills flapping weakly at the baffled midwife. </p><p>Categorisation of Dust properties had sped up after that. </p><p>When they came for her, the children had to be smuggled under covered wagons, bumping along the roads at night. By then, the use of Faunus children as labour was controversial. The official excuse was that the mines were teaching the orphans a livelihood, but only children had the sensitivity to locate new Dust veins. As the Schnee landholdings grew, the company sent out patrols against trespassers. There were only so many safe routes that skirted the Grimm trails, and the patrols came back with the labour that the mine was so lacking. If the children they arrived back with weren’t orphans, they were orphans in law the moment they entered the large black registers held deep in the mining archives. Height and weight, estimated age.</p><p>The injection, marked in a separate column. Children lining up to be prodded, tapped, pawed over by large hands. The adults treated them with a rough curiosity, calling one another over to point out some detail or another. After categorisation, a number.</p><p>Little Blake standing there with ears flipped inside out, the pink shells exposed. </p><p>"Poor kitty", the matron had said, running a comb through Blake's hair, nodding when it came back clean. She'd patted Blake on the head, then pulled her ears back and angled them upwards. "Look, it’s a rabbit."</p><p><em>They think we’re animals</em>, Adam had said to her, forcing the words out through clenched teeth. They had met during processing, drawn to each other by the same tight desperation that set them apart from the slack faces of the other children. <br/>
<br/>
Had their minders read the beginnings of hatred in their wild-eyed faces? She can still see the face of the first overseer who made it his mission to break them to their new reality, pink and fleshy with a red webbing of broken veins around the nostrils, his chest heaving with satisfaction at the fear he took for obedience. Fastidiously clean despite his bulk, the nails on his thick fingers blunt and short as he seized Adam by a horn, slamming the boy to the ground.  Few could afford to keep clean in the mines.</p><p>She’d rushed at the man, but how easily had he caught her fists, twisting her arms behind her before transferring his grip to one hand. Adam struggling to get up. Clutching his ribs. Shallow gasps of pain. How the overseer had kicked him flat and stood over him with a heavy boot on his horn. How Adam had looked up at Blake struggling, and how the overseer had met his eyes as he casually backhanded Blake, jolting her head back in one hideous flash of pain. She’d started shaking then, kept shaking even after the overseer had released her. He’d lifted her chin to examine her expression, and, seemingly satisfied, rubbed her flattened ears with something resembling affection. The rasp of his callouses set the back of her neck on edge. </p><p>“Don’t suppose you have a tail,” he’d said. “Pity we don’t have to cut holes in your clothes. Might be convenient when you grow a little.” Then, looking down at Adam with a mock-conspiratorial grin: “Isn’t that right, mooncalf?”</p><p>His grin widened, and Blake looked down, and the sight branded itself into her memory. Tears in Adam’s eyes, torn anger, shame. The acrid smell of urine seeping his humiliation from a darkening stain. The overseer had laughed and wiped his hands with a handkerchief, letting the fabric square flutter to the damp ground before stepping away. Adam had kept that handkerchief for years until the day he’d wadded it with Dust and crammed it into its owner’s mouth—</p><p>“Stop that,” Blake said, and opened her eyes. When had she shut them? She pressed her fingertips hard against her eyelids in an attempt to calm the twitching and let out a long shuddering breath. Her hands started shaking so she lowered them. Her gaze jerked itself around the room. It was intolerable in its stillness. She needed air, needed to be out under the sun. The Dust bands winding itself up her wrist had seared itself black. Quota met. Surely the newcomers could fuel themselves without her help. She fumbled with the catch on the window to push it open, almost tumbling through the gap in her haste to land. The ground beneath the grass was packed and dry. Above her head the sky a hard reassuring blue.</p><p>There was a tree at the back of the building, and she made her way over to sit under it, setting her back against the trunk. The pressure of the rough grain through her clothes centered her, the sunlight played a little through the leaves and boughs, casting little dapples of shadow at her feet.</p><p>She must have drifted off, for she woke to a voice almost right above her head.</p><p>“…necessary,” finished the unfamiliar voice. Blake stood up hastily, just as the two men rounded the corner of the building, fixing a blank expression to her face. The warden started slightly upon seeing her, but the other man — a townsman from his clothes and slight paunch — looked at her, kept looking. The warden coughed thickly, turned and spat before clearing his throat again. </p><p>“Where were you this afternoon?" </p><p>“Here. They didn't show."</p><p>The warden frowned. “The aldermen have been trying to find you the past hour. Thought you'd run off and were planning on detonating if you didn't show by nightfall—” </p><p>“All of them are primed, then?" asked the townsman. </p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“It would be a pity, sure. She's a pretty girl,” he said. Then to the warden: “May I ?” </p><p>“Go ahead,” said the warden, beckoning Blake over.</p><p>Move one foot forward, and then another. </p><p>“Ta. Arm," taking hold of her left hand briskly. "It is the arm, isn't it?" he asked the warden, looking at the bands inked around her wrist. </p><p>"Not any more," said the warden, walking forwards to stand behind Blake. "We keep the lure on the arm because it enters the blood anyways but this —  down !" She lowered her head reluctantly, muscles tensing as he removed her hood, parting her hair roughly at the nape of the neck.“Not after the first one discovered you could remove the limb first. It's on the back of the neck now. Like to see them try to remove that.” </p><p>“Faunus? A black cat?” The townsman loosened his grip. Her arm fell back against her side. </p><p>“You've eyes. Why? You superstitious? She joined up voluntarily, if you can believe that. Fights like a wildcat too.” </p><p>“What's her edge?” </p><p>“Dodging, shadow stuff. Fellow that put her through her paces couldn't land a hit. Near about drove him mad how the lads were heckling him so.” </p><p>“Weapon?” </p><p>“Regulation, our make. One of the blade chain combinations.” </p><p>“And the local Faunus population are that capable? It's not in your reports.” </p><p>The warden shrugged. “Your lot wrote the rules. They volunteer, we don't ask questions. You still want to see this?” </p><p>The townsman hummed, circling behind Blake to peer at the raised emblem. Up close, he reeked of slick pomade and sweat, cloyingly sick.</p><p>“I was there when they floated the concept. It was an ugly thing, but this is very tidy. First time I’ve seen one in use,” he told the warden, tracing around the black outline of the flame. “Individual identification. It’s a nice touch. We knew that from the start it would be effective, but there were complications in the development.” </p><p>Leather shoes the colour of butter, looked just as soft, scuffed over and rimmed with grey dust. The finger drew a line down her neck. “We heard about the failed prototypes. All the grumbling. Sure, it was messy, but as with most things Dust related, it’s always a delicate balance of distance and volatility. That, and a great deal of gold.”</p><p>"We pay enough," said the warden, and the finger stilled. After a pause, she heard its owner step away. She counted to three, then straightened up slowly, tugging her hood back into place. </p><p>“The Company has always believed in securing its investments.” </p><p>“Well, I've got a village to keep safe and now you come with bad news,” said the warden. He glanced at Blake. “Report to the aldermen first, then the quartermaster for your weapon and supplies. There's been a change of plans. New trails. You'll meet your team at the first checkpoint. Got that?” </p><p>A nod.</p><p>“Go.”</p><p>She started walking. As she passed, the townsman's gaze clung to her like congealed fat, lingered. Even his voice seemed to follow.</p><p>“Pity,” she heard him say again.</p><p>
  <strong>***</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>The sun pooling low, bright as molten metal under the cotton rich sky, light softening after the harshness of the day. Above, the soft clotting of the clouds into a gently darkening indigo, casting softer hues in preparation for that period in which shadows could hide, where the mind works overtime to distinguish patterns, parse the shapes into something familiar.</p><p>Follow the road to where it ends at the mouth of the forest. Look for the campfire. Two humans.</p><p>The trick questions they used to ask: which would you'd rather, iron or feathers, which would be heavier? Human or Faunus, she hears them say. Equality, the same kilogram. Look up, she wants to tell them, see them looking down even as their remains lie pulverised, intermingled with the Dust you drilled through rocks to mine. </p><p><em>Their mines</em>, said a voice in her head, sounding suspiciously like Adam's. </p><p>For it was true that once humans began to settle, they took up more volume. In the early days, when both wandered the earth, their numbers were comparable to that of the Faunus.</p><p><em>They feared us then</em>, said Adam's voice. </p><p>"They thought the Grimm were possessed animals and us the cursed offspring", Blake remembers her father saying. 'At first they avoided us. Then they fought us, and it took many deaths for them to realise that we were no Grimm. But we kept to our routes, and where our paths crossed — some groups fought, others traded."</p><p>''And so it might have continued, but unlike us, they were not content to wander, as they glanced back just as often as they moved forward, wistfully remembering this fertile valley, that river, teeming with life next to a stretch of open plains, wide as the eye can see. All this remembering made them angry, unsatisfied. If not for the Grimm who travel as they wish, they would say with gritted teeth, if only we did not have to constantly be on the move to avoid them — "</p><p>If only, if only. Then the discovery.</p><p>Dust.</p><p>Blake knows the story by heart, a story as familiar as a well-tongued wisdom tooth. A young Nicholas Schnee chased into the rocky outcrops, leather soles slipping on the loose scree, tumbling into the opening of some pit. The Grimm piling in after him into the dimly lit cave —  he fires an arrow — misses — it flies into the vein of orange crystal set into the cave wall —  an explosion of heat sending him careening backwards —  he looks, and the Grimm is no more.</p><p>How he staggered back with glittering pockets as bright as the future he conjured around the communal campfire.</p><p>A man armed with his trusty pickaxe, taking on the land. </p><p>Why didn't we use the Dust first, she remembers asking her father. Didn't we have the stories? </p><p>"We left the Dust as it was because of the stories", he had replied. "We knew better than to upset the balance."</p>
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